


In Fairness

by sc010f



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-28
Updated: 2010-12-28
Packaged: 2017-10-14 04:34:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,550
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/145418
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sc010f/pseuds/sc010f
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's not Sherlock's fault, nor is it John's.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Fairness

In fairness, Sherlock had had every intention of telling John that he had placed off-brand erectile dysfunction pills (which he'd nicked out of Lestrade's evidence bin) in the old paracetamol bottle in the loo.

But Wayne-the-head-in-the-fridge's (so christened by John because of his resemblance to some footballer) nose had fallen off when he'd returned home, and he'd had to text Molly to alert her that the nose had in fact fallen off, and he was heading into the lab with the nose to run some tests on it.

Because really, who didn't check the contents of pill bottles before ingesting them? It was the only wise thing to do.

Finally, in fairness, Sherlock had had some fascinating theories on necrotized flesh that he wanted to use the off-brand erectile dysfunction pills to test. It wasn't as if he had taken them for _recreational_ use.

He rarely did that sort of thing anymore.

* * *

In fairness, John usually double-checked the contents of pill bottles. He'd never had cause to regret it (Sherlock didn't usually muddle about with them), but one couldn't be too careful.

But after a long day in the surgery and a friendly pint with Sarah (who was just now speaking to him again – although she blushed every time he mentioned Sherlock), the 'flu that had been going around London hit him like the Bakerloo Line train that he'd just boarded on his way home.

Trudging up the stairs and into the deserted flat, he felt kinship to Wayne-in-the-fridge.

A shower helped some, but what he really wanted was hydration, paracetamol, and his bed. All three were easily within his reach.

* * *

So it really wasn't John's fault, nor was it Sherlock's fault, that John Watson awoke in the wee small hours of the next morning with a headache and a raging hard-on.

* * *

What had awakened him was the mad scraping of Sherlock's violin.

"Oh, fuck," John moaned, rolling over to bury his head in the pillow. "Ow, fuck!" he exclaimed as he rolled over on his erection.

"Not _now_ ," he told it.

The erection paid him no heed, bobbing merrily within the confines of his shorts.

John shoved the waistband of his shorts down and squinted at his cock in the half-light.

"Do you mind?" he asked it.

Apparently it didn’t.

John snapped the shorts up and rolled onto his side. If he ignored it, maybe it would go away.

He was wrong.

An hour later, it was still clamoring for attention.

" _Fine_ ," John sighed, bringing a hand to himself. "Let's get this over with."

Closing his eyes (at least the violin had stopped – curse Mycroft for introducing his brother to Ligetti), John settled in for a businesslike wank: calling to mind his usual visual aids – thighs, buttocks, breasts, Sarah's smile.

Twenty minutes later, even after a trip to the loo for conditioner (he really must remember to buy lubricant – he wasn't seventeen anymore), John was still fully erect and ready to scream.

Especially as the violin had started up again.

* * *

By three-fifteen in the morning, John had been (by his reckoning) erect for two hours and thirty-eight minutes, and Sherlock had been alternately playing modern classical music and big band jazz classics for two hours and fifty minutes.

Enough was enough. John kicked the covers away from the bed and padded down to the sitting room.

"Sherlock!" He shouted from the shadows.

"Ah, you're up."

"Because of your bloody playing!"

"Ah, not good?"

John scowled at him from the hallway.

"No. Not good."

Sherlock pouted, but put the violin down.

"Tea?" he asked, flopping onto the sofa and clicking open his laptop. He stopped and sniffed the air.

"I suppose you would consider it rude of me to point out that hair conditioner is not the best lubricant for masturbation."

John did not think he could turn any redder at that moment.

"Well, I'd welcome any suggestions," he snarled, "because I've been trying to get rid of this bloody thing for three hours, and if this goes on any longer, I will end up in A&E, thank you very much!"

Sherlock snapped the laptop closed and squinted at him through the shadows.

"Oh, come _here_ ," he said in exactly the same tone that he used to point out a clue that John, Lestrade, and the rest of them were too dense to see.

John, now the shade of a beetroot, entered the room.

"You used the pills in the old paracetamol bottle, didn't you?" Sherlock asked, after looking him up and down.

"There was a new one?" John asked. "I used the one on the sink in my bathroom. Sherlock! What did you _do_?"

Sherlock waved a hand as if to brush the subject aside.

"Never mind that," he said, "if you took the recommended dose of what you thought was paracetamol, you could be in for an uncomfortable night."

"Bloody _hell_! What was in that bottle?"

"The good news is that, since they were off-brand, you probably won't die. The bad news is that unless you manage to achieve orgasm with in the next hour or so, you will, as you have so accurately pointed out, wind up in A&E with an embarrassing story to tell." Sherlock paused. "I was saving them for some experiments I was doing with necrotized flesh," he explained.

John wished he had his gun.

"It's no good wanting to shoot me," Sherlock pointed out. "Now take your pants off and come here. Oh, and bring that kitchen towel, dampened, please."

"What…" John fetched the towel but refused to take his shorts off.

"Do you want me to do it?"

"Sherlock, I'm not taking off my pants in front of you."

"How long is it, John?"

"What? It's usual leng-… three hours, fifteen minutes."

"Do you want to end up giving Mike a good story? I'm sure this will make it back to St Bart's."

"Just what did you have in mind?" John asked suspiciously.

"I believe the common term is 'blow-job'. You are the correct height such that I can comfortably bring you to orgasm from the sofa, and then you will, if I am correct, be able to get the sleep you crave. Which will allow me to continue my work without interruption."

"Interruption? I wasn't the one playing the bloody violin…" John's erection twitched, painfully.

"And how much longer were you planning on attempting to stimulate yourself?" Sherlock asked. "Until you started a fire?"

"All right! Fine! But this doesn't leave this room, understand?" John cried, his body craving sleep, and his erection craving attention.

He lowered his shorts around his knees and stood in his vest and socks, erection waving in the nighttime draught.

"For what it is worth, John," Sherlock said, sounding somewhat subdued, "your penis is of an impressive length and girth for your overall proportions."

"Yes, thank you," John said testily, choosing to examine the wallpaper and the smiley face.

There was a huff of warm breath on his thigh, and the creaking of the sofa.

And then Sherlock's mouth was on his cock and John Watson's brain short-circuited.

It was probably the best blow-job he'd ever experienced under the worst of circumstances (even that time at uni that he was allegedly too drunk to remember).

Sherlock's mouth was warm and wet. His tongue lapped the underside of John's cock, as John shuddered, trying not to buck his hips, trying not to drive himself further into the other man's mouth. A steadying hand rested on his hip, and then on his arse. The hand was also warm, firm, dictating a gentle sway to John's hips, encouraging him to move in a tempo both delicate and primal.

"Oh, fuck," John moaned as Sherlock began to suck in earnest. Bloody hell, if the man didn't know _exactly_ the right combination of teeth and tongue to use. John clenched his fists, trying not to bury his hands in the other man's hair and tug. He'd never felt this before.

When the hand that wasn't on his arse moved to fondle his balls, already drawn tight, John thought he was going to die. It was heaven.

And then Sherlock made a noise in the back of his throat and John barely had time to give a strangled shout before he came in a profusion of white light. He had no idea what Sherlock did, because at that moment his knees gave way and he found himself crouched on the coffee table, and then slumping to the floor.

"Bloody brilliant," he heard a voice mumble, and he was fairly certain it was his.

"That is usually what people say," Sherlock's voice replied as gentle hands, the ones that had so recently been on him, wiped him clean and pulled his shorts back up and placed a blanket over him. "Sleep, John."

* * *

The next morning, when John awoke from the best night's sleep of his life, the skull was staring at him from the coffee table. In its jaws, there was a note. The note read:

 _There is fresh tea in the pot. Lestrade will be around later to pick up the remainder of the contents of the paracetamol bottle from last night. Here is one that has not been opened. Don't forget, when you go out, we need milk._

 _-SH_

**Author's Note:**

> Not mine, no money. Inspired by a Sherlockbbc_Fic prompt somewhere (lost the link) wherein somebody accidentally ingests erectile dysfunction tablets. Thanks again to annietalbot and bluestocking79 for their tireless work, especially on this prompt (there's one in every fandom, right?).


End file.
